


Paying the Ferryman

by cofax



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Gen, burial logistics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-16
Updated: 2010-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/pseuds/cofax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Vehicle was a good word: a clean word, a safer word than "coroner's van".</i></p><p>Post-ep for "This Is Not Happening".  Posted March 2001.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paying the Ferryman

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the mighty "M"s: Marasmus, Magdeleine, &amp; Maggie

They wouldn't let Scully ride with him. They surrounded her,  
holding her back, as if she was going to do something horrible,  
as if they couldn't trust her.

She'd buried her sister and her daughter and her father already,  
and her partner once before. She wasn't going to crack. She  
was a professional, an FBI agent, who had seen more tragedy and  
horror in the line of duty than any cop in Hell's Kitchen.  
She'd taken lives; she'd nearly died more times than she could  
count.

//no no no this isn't how it happens//

She could do this.

But they wouldn't let her, the fuckers. She didn't say that,  
though: instead she let Skinner hold her back while they loaded  
the -- while they put him in the vehicle. It was green, oddly  
enough. A green vehicle. Vehicle was a good word: a clean  
word, a safer word than "coroner's van".

In the hours since Jeremiah Smith had disappeared and they had  
found -- in that time, the sky had clouded over, and the  
unseasonable weather had changed. It was close to freezing, and  
she could feel snow in the air, taste it in the back of her  
mouth. She should have been cold, but she couldn't tell. She  
didn't give herself time to find out.

"Let's go," she said, and yanked open the driver's side door of  
Skinner's bucar. The Missoula office used Grand Cherokees  
because of the weather and the rough terrain, and she had to  
climb up into the seat. She ignored Skinner's offered hand. No  
way was she letting him drive.

//no no don't no this is a bad idea we shouldn't do this //

Skinner was thrown against the passenger-side door by the speed  
with which she pulled out. She had to keep the green van in  
view. It was important. The old farmhouse perched on its  
isolated lot fell behind, shrinking in the rearview mirror, but  
she didn't look at it. She would not see it again.

The long drive back to Missoula was silent, as the snow started  
falling. The snow was light and dry, and between the wind  
keeping the snow aloft, and the four-wheel drive, she had no  
problems handling the truck. The sky was grey and lowering  
above the hills, flat as coins on the eyes of the dead.

Once or twice she could tell Skinner began to say something, and  
then stopped. Good. It was too late for him to speak now; if  
he'd said something earlier, maybe -- she stopped at the only  
traffic light in the tiny town of Whitehorse. If he'd said  
something earlier, maybe --

"Agent Scully." His face was still when she looked at him, his  
eyes narrowed a little as he jerked his chin forward.

Oh, shit. She'd sat through a full cycle of the light. The  
green van was far ahead. Ignoring Skinner's muffled  
exclamation, she gunned the engine and surged through the red  
light, racing across the empty intersection and down the main  
street, past the feed store, the coffee shop, the laundromat.

//no no whose idea was this anyway//

They took a short flight from Missoula to Minneapolis, then a  
direct flight to National. She didn't think Skinner ever  
realized he clenched and unclenched his hands on the arms of his  
seat for six hours. She had the tall, boyish flight attendant  
bring her a single scotch and water, and finished it slowly  
during the inflight movie. When the cabin was dark, most of  
their fellow-travelers sleeping in their cramped seats, she knew  
Skinner was watching her.

He was welcome to watch: he'd fucked up too. They had the  
least-popular seats on the plane, the last two before the  
bathrooms; they'd been lucky to get on the flight at all. But  
this was the flight that was carrying the shipment home, and she  
was traveling with it all the way.

When they landed at National, she ducked into the coffee shop to  
lose the A.D. After that, it was simple to bluff her way into  
the baggage-handling area with a brisk smile and a wave of her  
badge. So what if she scared the shit out of some poor guys  
running a lost luggage ring? She had a responsibility.

This time she was going to do the job right, do it herself.  
Nobody else was going to be involved.

//no no why are we listening to them no//

They'd run, screaming with horror and fright as the faceless  
figures swarmed about them, bursting out of the darkness into  
their fragile sanctuary. Of course they had run, of course they  
had panicked. This was the FBI, for fuck's sake, and they were  
in Montana. Land of the Freemen and Ruby Ridge. Nobody trusted  
the government here; and they had no reason to know the FBI was  
there to rescue one of their own.

If she'd waited, if she'd taken the lead herself instead of  
sitting there *hoping*, listening to Skinner and Doggett argue  
out the details with the Missoula SAC. Tactics, timing, routes  
traced on maps by thick fingers shaggy with hangnails; murmurs  
about cult activity fed by that lunatic Doggett had found -- it  
had all swept past her. She'd been buoyed by hope and Skinner's  
insane faith. God had helped them through so much to get here  
\-- he wouldn't abandon her now.

God seemed with her, for that one moment --

And then gone.

//no you can't take him I need him no//

She had let it get away from her. If she'd gone in alone; if  
she'd brought Jeremiah Smith with her; if she'd ignored  
Doggett's insistence that they needed the SWAT team; if she'd  
FUCKING TAKEN CONTROL the way she always had --

There it was, in the back, behind the animal crates and the  
piles of skis.

A single man stood next to it, his dark blue jumpsuit stained at  
the knees and elbows, the embroidered tag over his chest reading  
"Dave". He touched it, carefully, and she bristled: she could  
feel the hairs on her arms stand up. She didn't reach for her  
gun.

"Ma'am? You here for this guy?" Dave looked well-meaning, if  
not all that smart. She decided he could live.

"Special Agent Scully." She waved her badge at him. Why was he  
still there? Oh. The cart.

"Um, we usually take these out the back, ma'am. You got someone  
meeting you? A hearse, the funeral home?"

She nodded; his blotchy face whipped up and down in her  
peripheral vision. There was a moment of quiet, and she pulled  
her eyes away from the glossy veneer to see Dave's mouth working  
silently. He met her eyes, and looked back at the shipment.

"Well, I'll help you bring it out, then." He put his shoulder  
behind it and began to push. As the trolley moved slowly, its  
wheels squeaking, a dark vehicle pulled up at the loading dock.  
At the same time, Scully saw the door she had come in by open,  
and Skinner poked his head through. She turned away.

//no no no don't run don't run, we're here to help you//

Skinner saw her as if from a long distance away: the slim dark  
blade of her body, the flash of color as her head passed beneath  
a swinging steel lamp, one hand resting carefully on the  
polished surface of the coffin, the other empty at her side.

The loading dock was grey and dull; the figure pushing the cart  
was shadowy blue, and even the dark surface of the hearse gave  
back no reflections. But the black casket gave back all the  
light in the echoing space, paling Scully's face to the color  
of the snow-heavy Montana sky.

The shipment was being carried across the river, and Scully was  
going with it; Skinner wasn't entirely sure she carried the coin  
to return.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: M. Sebasky and I both wrote post-eps for TINH based on a  
> few common elements: I direct you to "At Your Feet, His Emblems  
> Fall" for an example of how it *really* should be done.
> 
> Special thanks to Maggie McCain for the title suggestion, and  
> Vehemently, for the end.


End file.
